Stellar: A Jean Grey Adventure
by Assassin For Hire
Summary: Jean shows some wannabe bad guys a thing or two about messing with sassy telepaths and goes Charlies' Angel on them. A car chase ensues through Central Park. Lengthy and fun.


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**STELLAR: A JEAN GREY ADVENTURE  
by Krista C. (kabanas)  
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**DISCLAIMER: Jean belongs to Marvel, I'm just borrowing her. This one is for pure Phoenix fans. Who else were these exquisite details written for? Also, excuse the choppy paragraphs and the shmooze--this was written for roleplay.  
  
  
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Jean Grey squealed the elegant yet compact Mercedes Benz SLR to a stop along the stretch of sidewalk, exiting her vehicle in one fluid gesture. The silver-trimmed convertible softly hummed its passive death as she stepped out of the driver's seat, a sight to behold. Well-manicured nails ran through her rich, strawberry hair, a marigold print skirt and a knitted, white halter-top adorning her heavenly figure. Her hair was neatly arranged into a simple ponytail. She was a remarkably refined woman, polished and divinely inspiring but altogether dismissive of her look. Jean Grey was, in short, a natural knockout. Dark sunglasses complimented her delicate, jade eyes. She was trailing the scent of jasper everywhere as she sauntered down that avenue, lost amidst rich and poor passerbys alike.

This part of New York City always delighted her. She felt comfortable within the healthy mix of cultures that pervaded its streets. The many art galleries and key museums were frequent stops. In fact, she had come here on an errand from Charles to secure a priceless painting her mentor took an interest in. She worried about looking presentable to the curator, though the absent truth was that Jean looked far superior than "presentable". There was a certain, unmistakably sensual air to her every step, involuntary as they were. Rounding the corner, Jean slipped her car keys into expensive Fendi bag by her side. Her posture remained dignified as a gorgeous, sunny smile lighted her face, greeting the morning. She was oblivious to the subtle stares eating up her feminine strut, but welcomed the peeling sunshine that shined a bronze sheen on her otherwise creamy complexion. She was calculatingly pretty and reeking with the air of intelligence. She was easily mistaken for a human. Little did anyone know, one of the most gifted psionists on the planet was walking amongst them.

Sprawled like a piece of art in the middle of the ghetto was the prestigious Metropolitan Museum of Art. Jean ducked a shy, graceful smile as a handsome stock broker--fresh out of Wall Street with Palm Pilot balanced in his teeth and a fat suitcase in one hand--held the glass door open for her. The smell of the distant Central Park reminded her to give her husband a ring for some tete a tete alone there later. Jean's tasteful, Italian slides clip-clopped on the marble floor in tune to her controlled breathing. She was given curt instructions by the concierge to take the elevator to the fourth floor; Mr. Gardner, seller of the artifact, wanted to see her right away. As Charles had made this a spur-of-the-moment last request, Jean had no idea what her reputed seller looked like. Sharing the elevator with a troupe of preschoolers who eye her in idyllic wonder, she pursued Mr. Gardner on the Metropolitan's upper levels. 

Towering indoor ferns and a cascading rock fountain meets the redhead as she exited. An impressed, amused smile crossed her features as she remarked to herself: "Fascinated with botanical gardens much, Mr. Gardner?" Suddenly, as if on cue, a quiet, masculine voice captured her attention from the western hallway. Jean held her breath in surprise as her face near-colored with embarrassment. "South American plants, actually," said the tall, darkly gorgeous and surprisingly young curator. That was what surprised her the most--his age. Jean had been expecting the proverbial old and recalcitrant researcher. "I have a healthy interest in their toxins," he quipped lightly, a nice grin on his smile to make up for it. 

"This way, please," the man gestured, an arm unfolding from behind his back. Jean was grateful for the curt, nonsensical approach. She didn't want to humor the man, not after losing her composure to him. At a glance, she caught the curious scar beneath his left earlobe, running some length down his refined jaw. A tall, proper man. She was pleased to see the wedding band on his finger. Walking in step with Gardner for quite some time through the MMOA's Impressionist exhibit, they finally reached a well-enclosed spread of the showroom floor. She stepped through a gray door and into a well-lit window office, where she sat herself before a broad desk, one smooth leg crossing the other. The metal chair she was seated upon was, like everything else in the room, an art decor. An easel stand was propped before the sunlight, facing her in plain view. Central Park was but a good walk away from where Jean sat. Everything looked presentable, kempt and professional—stuffy, much like her seller and his craft. For some inexplicable reason, Jean was beginning to feel cramped by all the rigidity. 

On her part, however, the redhead settled her bag to the floor and eyed Gardner's office with mild curiosity. She'd seen Storm's taste in decorum before, and was far more impressed. This office seemed an oddly arranged room, much too neat to be the office of a curator. Her thoughts were broken as Gardner addressed her.

"I was hoping to see Mr. Xavier in your place, Ms...?"

"Grey," she offered plainly. "The Professor is sorry he couldn't be here; he had visitors from Washington. I'm sure you understand. I'm well-informed of the transaction he proffered to make with this gallery. I have a card he entrusted me to give to you."

A business-like approach. She needn't be apologetic. A thank-you card was slipped into the man's hands. 

"I...understand Mr. Xavier prizes Dutch pieces..." Gardner responded, eyeing the card with less than an acknowledgment. Jean had been watching him out of the corner of her eyes, pacing about the beautiful, expansive office floor behind her. She wondered what he was being so nervous about. 

"The Metropolitan does not own all of its art," he continued, "in fact, the 17th-century King David piece Mr. Xavier wants to bargain for belongs to one...Russell...Harvey..."

Gardner's odd change in tone was accompanied by the soft click of the door being opened, followed by someone's footsteps, then more...more... Suddenly, Jean was aware of a collective of men standing behind her, barricading her way from the only exit. A person doesn't need to be a telepath to figure out that all of this spelled trouble. She can clearly see the reflection of at least six MIBs on the pristine, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the rich, green scenery of Central Park. Her mind scan confirmed they were all armed. Two thoughts entered Jean's mind at this point: firstly, to calmly stand and assert her sensibilities over the situation; and lastly, the question of how to possibly get an explanation. There clearly was not going to be a business arrangement here this morning. She was being set up.

"I see we're no longer a legitimate businessman," she slowly turns around to eye Gardner, arms raised in the air in compliance to the armed guards before her.

"I never was," the young curator responded calmly, slipping the card into his breast pocket with slow arrogance. "Allow me to introduce, Mr. Harvey, Ms. Grey," Gardner continues, gesturing as he joined a fair, broad-shouldered man, easily identifiable as the ring leader.

Jean, however, would have none of her seller's long-winded speeches.

"I would rather you tell me what this is all about before you try and kill me," she calmly interrupted, following Gardner's every move with her emerald gaze through those thick, iridium lenses. The two lead men exchanged glances, while the fairer of the two, Harvey, approached her. Jean retained her unconquerable poise as the man approached and craned his neck down to breathe into her face with spitting exaggeration: "An audience...with Charles...Francis...Xavier." Jean could feel the man's eyes burning into her own at this short proximity, could smell his hot breath. Death had such a polite way of revealing itself to her this morning. 

In reply, Jean smiled patiently, not pulling her gaze away from her 'seller.'

"Mmm, well I have a cell phone handy in my purse," she eyed his suit with some amusement, "You can have a large as audience you want with him then."

An insulted moment of silence hushed the room before Harvey soundly slapped Jean across the cheek. 

Although remaining ever composed, Jean was helpless to a pained, shocked breath as Harvey stepped away from her to study the contents of the covered easel. He folded his hands behind his back, a swift THWOOFT! heralding the arrival of a switch knife in his grasp. The men in black suddenly devoured the distance closed in on Jean.

"umans are an impatient race, Ms. Grey," Harvey droned in a lazy manner, "and they're fed up with evangelists like your Professor feeding them false information about the possibility of humans and mutants ever becoming friends. Oh yes, don't you know the government in this country has been keeping a close eye on your school of genetic defects? Organizations like mine are heavily funded and backed by Uncle Sam and there are dozens of us spawning across America. Almost as many as there are mutants. Maybe we could convince this professor of yours to lighten the load for us _homo sapiens_." He sent a private smile to his accomplice, Gardner, not unlike a sneer. "I hear he's quite the charitable one." 

A Beretta semi-automatic with a long silencer attached to its barrel was suddenly plastered to Jean's forehead. She leveled her gaze back to the MIB in front of her and feigned a tranquil disposition. Which was the faster weapon: a bullet or her telekinesis? At this proximity, she wasn't quite sure. Straining out of the corner of her eyes, Jean made out the image of Harvey planting a kiss along the easel stand, blessing his centuries-old painting of King David before covering it again. "Take her to the van," Harvey commands in his gruff voice. Jean was smart to comply for now, as she was lead into the hallway flanked by six MIBs and with Gardner escorting them. 

The party of eight now walked briskly out of the elevator and into the lobby of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Met was teeming with visitors and security guards at this hour, but Jean's conscience advised her not to send out a telepathic message for help. It was important not to scare the public with the notion of an identifiable mutant in their midst. She was at a disadvantage here. Besides, the most important thing worry now was the matter of resolving this mess by herself. Her escorts were the perfect actors--chatting along with each other, feigning camaraderie and boisterous in their jokes. Only Jean knew that every one of them secretly had their pistol loaded and aimed at her from behind. 

A short distance of walking and Harvey's henchmen managed to drag Jean into a long, narrow alleyway, edged between a tobacco store and a seedy tourist stand. She could make out the white van at the end of the passageway, its engine already started and purring with exhaust. Now relatively safe from public view, it was at this time that Jean decided to spring into action. As the party walked speedily down the alley, the metal lids of three garbage cans were suddenly animated to life by telekinesis, coated with a magenta sheen. They shoot through the air like boomerangs and effectively cut into three MIB's heads, knocking them unconscious. As one guard moved to shoot her at point blank range, her supernormal telepathic instincts hone in on his murderous intent and ducked just in time for the guard behind her to take the bullet--straight in the forehead.

Four down, two MIBs to go.

Gardner and Harvey were furiously staring wide-eyed at her. The latter of the two was suddenly lost in the fray, running to the van by command of his boss, who had ordered him to prepare moving the vehicle. Jean felt her heart pumping savagely inside her chest. Both MIBs were deprived of their weapons, thanks to Jean's TK. They were lobbed into the deep recesses of the alley, where they would take an hour to find. A sharp heel painfully dug into one man's chest as Jean met his rushing advance with a swift kick. The other MIB was taken down with an aikido throw. Jean braced a strong leg against the man's knees, snaking her body from behind him to knock him flat on the back of his head with her elbow. She stepped away to dispose of his crumpling body on the dirty ground. 

Though not exactly the most physical of fighters, Jean nonetheless has had her fair share of defensive training in the Danger Room. But there was something undeniably amazing in this innocent-looking redhead, bringing down the best of them with only her intelligence and quick handle on the situation. And Jean was in high heels and a skirt, no less. Could anything stop this woman? 

Possibly. A swift, familiar THWOOFT! heralded the coming of Russell Harvey from behind, a strong arm suddenly furled around Jean's neck in a choking grip. He pressed the tip of his sharp switchblade into the side of her temple.

"That was stirring, Ms. Grey," the ringleader whispered into her ear, his bitterness slipping through.

Jean could feel his repressed rage transferring into her own mind through the mind link she shared with the human now. He was taking her hostage to the pier. That wouln't be happening, if she could help it—and Jean always gets her way. A rough shake of her neck and the further push of the blade's tip into her skull drew blood. It grabbed Jean's attention back to the Here and Now.

"Now behave like a good little mutant disease and I won't be inspired to drive this knife into your head, hmm?" 

The redhead could barely suppress her cringe of distaste as Harvey ran his tongue along the side of her temple, licking away the drop of blood that formed there under his blade. However, this was just the opportunity Jean was looking for, because in the blink of an eye, the two of them—wanted criminal and gorgeous, scarlet-haired hostage—were suddenly airborne and careening backwards into the hard, old-fashioned brick wall. A pained grunt issued forth from Harvey's throat as Jean used him like padding. The man's spinal column crashed straight into the brick side of the tobacco store. They both slumped to the ground, Jean rolling away swiftly and mussing her tight ponytail in the process. She stared almost incredulously at the blood spewing forth from Harvey's side—the knife that had been embedded into his gut has been his own doing during their brief "flight," not hers. 

The two exchange laborious breaths, Harvey's blonde-strewn forehead slick with sweat, the hand at his side wet with blood. Jean remained crouched a safe distance away from him, unsure whether she should help out or not. The decision was made for her when the man turned desperately at the white van and let his guttural order ring throughout the alleyway.

"AFTER HER!" 

Wide-eyed, Jean leapt to her feet and ran for the intersection, a broad vehicle pursuing her close from behind with the full intent of either securing her within its interior or making her mutant road kill out there on the streets of Central Park. She was quick on her high-heeled sandals, dodging a rushing taxi cab to safely cross the street where her vehicle is parked. That same instant, the van—with Gardner now at its driver seat and his boss Harvey reclaiming the passenger side—came snarling out of the alleyway, knocking down trash cans and sending old newspapers flying everywhere, destroying the tourist stand that was set up at the mouth of the alley. Jean instinctively reached for her keys, when a daunting idea suddenly overwhelms her—her purse! She had left it back at the Met, when she had almost been fed a bullet… Cursing under her breath, Jean forced herself to calmly unlock the windowless, silver-trimmed, Mercedes boxster, sliding inside its plush, leather seat to buckle in as fast as she could. No time for looking pretty, now—she had to start this car and get out of there, FAST! 

Slender hands flew to Jean's temple as the redhead's emerald gaze shut out all of New York to concentrate. Her well-manicured nails were blanketed with a magenta sheen as telekinesis snaked from her temples and onto her seat, spreading fast to engulf the entire vehicle with telekinesis in moments. Let on-lookers stare in shock as her car suddenly glowed bright pink! She was running for her life here. 

The woman's sigh of relief is momentary as she glanced over her shoulder to check for traffic from her rear, maneuvering the psionically-powered car out of parallel parking. Just in time, too—the bulldozer-like van is already on her rearview mirror when she runs a red light for a way out. A pulsating car chase ensued soon thereafter, with Jean's slick, compact convertible trailing brightly with her incandescent telekinesis, roaring through the streets. The van was tailgating her dangerously close from behind. Its passengers already loaded long-range machine guns for peppering her with an arsenal of firepower from behind. For all the trouble she found herself in, Jean couldn't help but laugh gleefully. Though not exactly taxing to her energy to keep the vehicle in constant movement, it did require her to school together all her focus.

Why don't I just -fly- this damn thing out of the park? she amused herself, the corners of her lips arching in a small smile. 

Of course, that was even more of a ridiculous notion than the chase itself. Charles wouldn't like it if he saw a $80,000 car soaring through the skies of Central Park in the morning news--with one of his own pupils inside! 

Never once taking her small foot from the accelerator, Jean sharply cut through traffic, steering a hard right in direction of the more empty, residential streets that'll eventually take her into those wild, Westchester country roads. But something told her she had to keep snaking through these streets a bit longer. It was the only possible way to avoid being caught in the cross-hatches of Harvey's now-armed machine gun that she caught in the rearview mirror.

"You government boys sure are packing heat..." Jean muttered.

Rampaging through a clear, stretch of road along the park, Jean suddenly got an idea. She would end up at the pier after all. 

With her body now beginning to hum with strain, she concentrated harder to move the vehicle past 90 MPH along a clear, long stretch of road. Call her insane if you will, but under this barrage of firepower and cut, falling branches in her face, Jean Grey was absolutely enjoying every minute of this thrilling chase. It fed the soul-consuming fire within her, teased her flames to rise into solar flares. Nonetheless, she had to commend Gardner for being a doggedly good driver--he was tailgating her, block for block, every second of the way. Meanwhile, Harvey was making his own art, turning the Mercedes' gleaming rear brake lights into stain glass debris along the street.

"Looks like Mr. South American Plants hasn't been doing his homework on psionically-manifested force fields... Hang on tight, honey." 

All quiet on the pier. The lazy calls of a flock of seagulls resting atop their shit-strewn posts. The long, resounding horn of a barge in the distance. The waves of the bay overlooking Bow Bridge glistening like fractured diamonds in the sunlight. Suddenly, the beautiful, glowing sports car came roaring over the high hill from out of nowhere. It seemed a thing of unparalleled beauty--silver, flying like bullet--and aflame with a color of pink that seems out of this world.

Sitting astride this flaming, powerful, "sex-on-wheels," Jean's hair furled freely from her face as wind rushed along both sides of her. Free falling, she skidded the car's wheels back onto the pavement with precision. Behind her was the screaming of a massive, propelled van over the hill not soon thereafter. Jean glanced over her shoulder with a delicious smirk. That couldn't have been a soft landing. She returned her cool gaze over the hood of the Mercedes. Gripping her long, delicate fingers over the steering wheel and pressing her head onto the steel-backed headrest, another pair of dark sunglasses were procured and slipped over Jean's brilliant, jade eyes. Her long, dark lashes flashed once with criminal delight. Onward with the chase... 

Having survived this cat and mouse chase throughout much of the greater Central Park area, Jean had successfully lured her would-be assassins to the pier and out of further massacres on the city streets. Psionics fuel the massive V-12 engine as Jean's little silver spider left black tire trails on the sun-beaten pavement, side-winding lithely in hopes of shaking off the stream of bullets whizzing at her force field. But then--a dilemma. 

As soon as the $80,000 Mercedes soars into the air from a studded, steel on-ramp, a crane came swinging into view, docked from a ship and carrying a massive, wooden crate as large as a semi truck. Jean had no time to react. Instead, she let the momentum of the car's flight propel her straight clear -into- the wooden crate. 

It seemed a miracle that Jean was able to blink her eyes open moments later, to find she was still alive--and her convertible still revving passionately, rearing to go again. 

"Empty..." she says breathlessly, realizing that fate had it in store for her to punch through that crate so easily! Through her rearview, Jean realized that Harvey and Gardner had landed on top of the wooden debris and was delayed. But not for long--the white van was back on track soon thereafter and squealing more viciously through the dock after her. How many thousands of dollars worth of property damage did the federal government owe the city of Manhattan now? She certainly wasn't to blame for the wreck here--these MIBs were trying to kill -her-, after all! Did that mean, then, that the more she insisted for her freedom, the harder she was resisting arrest? 

Jean was suddenly growing angry.

"Covert retrieval units recruited by the Feds to leash mutants," the redhead muttered, "try at me with something I -haven't- seen before, Mr. Gardner." 

Pedal to the metal now, the wind began flogging the magenta force field surrounding her vehicle as Jean drove all of her frustration into topping 100 MPH again, headed for the end of the long dock. She prayed that no one comes into view now; she wouldn't want to inadvertently flatten some poor, unsuspecting fisherman on such a beautiful day. Caught like James Dean in some testosterone-driven drag race, Jean forced herself to test the limits of her courage, pushing as far as her bravery will take her along that broad, lengthy marina. And for every square feet covered, Harvey and Gardner were there right behind her, only asking for an early death. 

The end of the dock now. A picture-perfect day in Manhattan. Those waves still shimmering like fractured diamonds under the noon sun. Jean's heart was wildly beating in her chest, her telekinesis visibly waning around her from all the distraction that adrenaline had on her stricken mind. Closing in on a hundred feet...sixty...thirty.... 

Jean suddenly slammed on the brakes and sharply turned the wheel left until steering was exhausted, squealing the gleaming convertible 180 degrees just short of the pier's edge. Her pursuers were not so prepared. The less expensive, less equipped, less capable van with its least suspecting passengers drove clear to the end of the dock with no time to halt its progress. For the briefest of moments, the rising tank of a vehicle almost looked graceful in its ascent-- a ballerina of glinting ivory--before plummeting into the water, consumed by the dank, merciless shores of Manhattan bay. 

Stumbling out of the car and spent from the ordeal, Jean stepped out into broad daylight, thankful yet for the sun and breeze on her pretty face. The force field, which had done well only minutes before to shield her from Harvey's barrage of firepower, collapsed at her exit. She peeled off the perfectly-contoured Givenchy sunglasses from her face, the burning, traumatic look in her jade eyes even darker than the shades that covered them. A shaking hand was brought to sweep back the thin, misplaced tresses of shining scarlet hair back into the natural direction of her ponytail. She trailed a beautiful, French-manicured finger behind an ear, where more of the same, silky red locks were kept in placed by an elastic band. 

Although the harbor was tranquil now and devoid of the roar of engines in pursuit of each other, Jean's emotions were a stark contrast. Smooth hands swooped down to the feminine camber of her hips, resting there in aggravation. Her knitted, white halter top effectively displayed the creamy complexion of her toned arms, her layered, marigold skirt cutting off just above the knees to show off her trim and gorgeous legs. Distressed though she may be, Jean Grey under this natural light still looks divinely inspiring, the smell of jasper still freshly permeating the air around her. She took her sweet, angry time sauntering to the pier's edge, eyeing the two floating figures in the water with a hard, unforgiving--and thoroughly contemptuous--stare. 

She purses her full lips, and found it was taking all of her will to suppress the corners of her mouth from lifting up into a smug and satisfied smirk. She addressed the fairer of the two government agents, Russell Harvey. "I'll make sure not to delay news of your 'unfortunate' decline to sell your 17th-century, Fleming King David piece to Professor Charles, Mr. Harvey. I'll even spare him the embarrassing details of this preposterous chase." 

Jean's dark lashes then fluttered over to the man swimming miserably beside him. "As for you, Mr. Gardner...I can sincerely say you're one hell of a driver. But really, honey, stick to your Amazon plants. They make much better babysitters than Mr. Harvey here." She added with finality, "Thank you for the thrilling chase, gentlemen. Your cover's been blown. Now if you'll excuse me, I left my purse at the Met."

Turning on her expensive Italian slides, Jean Grey padded back to the Mercedes, effortlessly slipping back into the leather interior. As quickly as telekinesis had collapsed from around her vehicle, so quickly was it born again, the sound of pure, psionic energy reverberating over the convertible. Jean shifted gears to drive and squealed the tires once more along the pavement.

Freedom. It's the thing no man on earth can steal away from this proud woman. The gentle, urgent calls of seagulls got dimmer as Jean departed the pier and reclaimed the streets of New York. After she nabbed her Fendi purse from the museum, she would call up her husband for that tete a tete in the park she had in mind earlier. After that, she'd drive home and take a long, hot shower--with Scott, preferably. He and Charles were going to want to hear all about today's morning adventure in the Big Apple. 


End file.
